


Mormor Advent Challenge 2020 Day 8: Icicles

by RueRambunctious



Series: Mormor Advent Challenge 2020 [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Early Days, First Meetings, Happy Murder Family, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, does this count as fluff?, first murder, teen! mormor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:15:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28620921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RueRambunctious/pseuds/RueRambunctious
Summary: Sebastian loses his phone. Pictures of the boy who finds it start to sync to Sebastian's cloud. He has to find him!
Relationships: Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty
Series: Mormor Advent Challenge 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2044660
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	Mormor Advent Challenge 2020 Day 8: Icicles

When Sebastian Moran’s phone is forfeit to his latest schooltime gambling loss he doesn’t care: he can afford another. A newer one even.

If his father finds out and is in the mood to chastise him for it, that doesn’t matter either. Sebastian Moran has grown accustomed to the fact that daddy often hits, whether he’s a naughty boy or not.

Nowadays Sebastian is usually naughty. What’s the point of being a good boy if you only get into big trouble anyway?

Sebastian replaces his phone and doesn’t expect to think anything more about it, providing his father doesn’t involve himself. Truanting from boarding school to cause mischief with older, poorer boys is far more fun than gambling with other spoilt brats who don’t care at all whether they win or lose.

Money’s so boring.

Sebastian is finding a number of illicit ways to spend it which make his days a little more interesting. Drugs. Girls. 

...Boys.

His father drags him into the drawing room with real vigour that night, and Sebastian feels serious fear for his life. The man has only found out about the skipped classes though, nothing worse, and Sebastian is so giddy with relief he almost laughs right in his father’s face when the man finally stops, walks around the desk and reaches for his cigar-cutter with far less threat than there might otherwise have been.

Sebastian’s taken such a whaling his legs don’t work properly, but he manages to get his trousers up by the time that his father starts smoking. 

Sebastian stumbles upstairs to his room once he manages to force his aching thighs to master the looming staircase. It takes Herculean effort and some poorly stifled, tearful whimpering.

He collapses face-first onto his bed and tries to ignore how much he hurts. There’s blood sticking Sebastian’s trousers and pants to his skin.

He’s overtired, but in too much pain to sleep. Desperate for a distraction, Sebastian takes out his new phone. He cycles through its apps, but nothing riveting is happening on any of his streams or any of his group chats.

He doesn’t feel like talking to anyone one-on-one. Sebastian can hardly tell people that he doesn’t just get knocked about by his dad, but actually often gets bent over and strapped bloody with the buckle end of a belt like some urchin in a period movie. It’s one thing when his father punches him, like a man sort of, but being spanked? At his age? What a joke.

Sebastian scrolls aimlessly through his music library. He cannot quite settle on any song that properly speaks to the bitter, restless anxiety bubbling in his veins.

He’s so bored. And sore. And frustrated. And humiliated.

And that’s when the notification comes through that new photographs have been added to his cloud.

Except, he hasn’t been taking any pictures, and when he opens the first thumbnail, it’s not a photo he has ever captured either.

It’s a boy’s body. Sebastian almost thinks someone’s trying to get him into trouble at first, but the anonymous torso and limbs are liberally bruised and clinically posed. Sebastian’s never bothered to hit anyone this whip-thin, so it’s not evidence of his handiwork either. All of the pictures are of the same, close ups and alternative angles of some pale, skinny teenager who has taken a battering. The pictures look like the documentation photos you sometimes see on the telly about victims of violence.

Impersonal, and also personal.

Whoever’s got Sebastian’s old phone now hasn’t disconnected it from his cloud. Any pictures the phone takes will sync. 

The mottled waif in the photos isn’t any of the boys Sebastian was gambling with. The robust boy who won his phone hung out with some of the same rough comprehensive school boys that Sebastian did, and it wasn’t unlikely that he’d lost the phone in a new game. It was also likely that the careless boy had gotten it stolen or simply discarded it for another to find. It was only a phone.

Sebastian peered carefully at the photographs and tried to recognise the skinny frame. It could be someone from his circle of older friends, maybe? Or a younger brother of one of them?

Kind of hard to recognise someone from a trait like having nipples the colour of their bruises.

Still, Sebastian’s not bored anymore.

A few days later, there are new photographs. The boy is in school uniform, but merely nondescript grey trousers and a white(ish) shirt, nothing recognisable.

Feeling a strange flutter in his gut, Sebastian strips off his own outer clothing. He’d gotten a fresh hiding too, and the marks turned his golden legs purple as a plum skin.

Sebastian snapped a few pics and wondered whether the other boy would see them. Would the cloud sync both ways? And would the lad feel a kinship?

Is that any sort of comfort?

No further photos appear for days. Sebastian doesn’t know whether to consider that good news.

He doesn’t document any of his freshest bruises either.

Over a week passes and a new picture arrives. Just one. A blank, unsigned plaster cast encasing an arm and peculiarly swollen, discoloured, bony fingers protruding awkwardly from therein.

A guy in a stookie might be easier to find than a boy recognisable only by his protruding ribs and liberal variety of injuries. Still, instead of asking around his friend groups, Sebastian walks over to his schoolbag. He pulls out a notepad and pen with single-minded focus.

He scrawls, ‘ _R U OK?_ ’

He snaps a picture.

Nothing. And then-

A new photograph adds itself to Sebastian’s cloud. The cast is turned, palm upwards, with a thin smiley face drawn with what Sebastian feels might be humour.

‘ _What’s your name?_ ’ Sebastian asks via another photo.

He is left unanswered.

Sebastian spends days out and about looking for a skinny boy in an arm cast, but finds none.

His father gives him a spectacular shiner, for no reason at all, and Sebastian finds himself reaching for his phone camera the moment he is done prodding his burst eye socket with an antiseptic pad.

Sebastian receives a close up photo of the other boy’s throat in response. Or rather, the fading bruises around it. The red and yellow finger marks look significantly bigger than the boy’s own frail fingers. His attacker – father? - is clearly bigger and stronger.

Sebastian’s a big lad. Tall, and broad, and growing. He’ll be bigger and stronger than his own father one day soon.

It looks like the other boy has cut himself trying to shave around the bruises. His Adam’s apple protrudes harshly, but it’s in good company amongst a pointy jaw and a collarbone so sharply jutting it could cut you.

Sebastian tries to initiate conversation, but gets rebuffed as before. The pair do however fall into a steady pattern of communicating with evidence of the injuries Sebastian reckons no one else gets to see.

He sends a photo of the state of his knuckles after he takes a solid swing at his father. It’s a bit of a shock somehow to stand in front the mirror to try to capture the ribbons his skin is left in after the fucking birching he caught for that. It’s far from the first time he’s been beaten bloody, but it’s suddenly a bit sobering to see just how injured he actually is.

 _‘U OK?’_ appears in Sebastian’s cloud.

Sebastian doesn’t know whether to say no. _One day I’m going to kill him_ ,’ he writes instead.

‘ _Same_.’

They start a stilted dialogue after that.

When the thin boy – who so far has avoided sharing a name – is free of his cast, he sends a picture of his fresh, white arm. Sebastian is surprised by the shiny pink mark that confesses that bone broke through skin.

He feels a little sick.

Sebastian doesn’t know why he didn’t expect that before. The other boy’s so scrawny a good slap would probably create gossamer-fine fractures like spider webs all along the boy’s unprotected bones.

Sebastian’s breath catches in his throat when he receives a photo two days later; the cast is back again.

 _’Is your arm fucked?_ ’ Sebastian asks.

Silence for a while. Sebastian thinks he won’t receive an answer, but then -

 _’Better than the stuff the hospital didn’t see._ ’ The scrawl is more chicken-scratchy than usual; must be his dominant hand that’s in the cast.

Sebastian’s heart thunders. ‘ _Show me?_ ’

‘ _Too gruesome._ ’

Sebastian’s heart squeezes as cold panic settles in his gut. He quickly asks, ‘ _Do you need more medical attention?_ ’

‘ _No._ ’ Then silence. Silence for hours.

‘ _Not that kind of disgusting_ ,’ appears in Sebastian’s cloud.

‘ _Where are you?_ ’ Sebastian asks. _’Do you want me to come get you?_ ’

More silence. It doesn’t feel right.

Sebastian returns to the photographs of the other boy. After looking for anything extra concerning about the skinny teen’s appearance, Sebastian scrutinises the backgrounds.

There are enormous icicles hanging so low they almost reach the bottom of the other boy’s bedroom window. Sebastian had received a photo the other day because the boy had opened the window into the thick ice and almost broken the glass as well as someone larger’s small temper.

Sebastian gazes at the houses he can see from the limited view outside the window. Some had seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place them.

He’ll go out and look for them. Sebastian cannot bear to stay home and wait by his phone.

It’s cold out. The air is so chilled it catches in Sebastian’s chest and makes every breath a little painful.

It’s a considerably long walk from Sebastian’s affluent neighbourhood to anywhere the other boy might stay. Sebastian makes the distance in record time, frost crunching underfoot as he hurries with single-minded purpose.

The nearest poor district is no good. The architecture’s all wrong. Too much pre-fabs from the end of the war. Sebastian’s looking for an ugly little red brick place. There’s hundreds of them, but there’s sandstone visible behind those in the pictures, and there’s only so many streets where the two building materials coincide.

The houses Sebastian has already scouted out on earlier investigations are between him and those he has not yet tried. He takes a good look at the windows of each just in case, but the weather’s not quite right here for such enormous icicles. The distance from the river and the direction of the sun (which has burnt a path across the front gardens here) is all wrong.

The next place has icicles, but they’re not the right angle. Nearby tower blocks create a wind tunnel that’s prohibitive to forming the impressive structures documented in Sebastian’s cloud.

Sebastian keeps walking.

And then, with a sudden crunch of frost, he comes to a halt. His heart pounds. The shape of these houses are familiar.

Row after row of red brick houses built for industrial workers decades ago squat almost as far as the eye can see.

The sandstone buildings are visible past a row of red brick, so Sebastian plots out a corresponding route on the other side. He just needs to stay parallel to the sandstone and eventually surely he’ll find…

Should he be doing this? Is this mad? Stalkery?

Who gives a fuck? Sebastian’s gotten attached to the little waif in his cloud and he’s not giving up now.

He’s three houses from the end when he sees them. The same pattern of icicles. The same crooked fence. The same faded blue of curtains he can barely see through the icicles, but knows have a little kid’s outer space pattern printed on them.

Sebastian feels a warmth in his chest that belies the white cloud of vapour escaping from his chilled lips.

And then he wonders what to do. Does he knock on the door? Try to throw something near the bedroom window? Force his way in and give the other lad’s father a kicking?

What if he’s bigger than Sebastian’s own father?

Where is he going to take the boy if he agrees to leave?

Sebastian’s phone buzzes. He has set up notifications for his cloud and looks at the latest one immediately.

There’s a photo of him standing outside taken from between those starry curtains mere moments ago. Sebastian feels a brief surge of triumph, then wonders how the fuck he can ask what to do next?

He looks up his own phone number in his settings, then takes a screenshot. He waits expectantly.

Sebastian’s phone rings, then cuts off immediately. Sebastian frowns at it, then thinks of course, this is a poor neighbourhood; the other lad won’t have credit to call him himself.

Sebastian’s got his number now though. His frozen toes feel a little wobbly at the thought. He hits _Call_.

Breathing. Laboured and incredulous. “How did you find me?”

“I’m a genius,” Sebastian says dismissively. “Are you okay?”

“No,” the other boy says. “Yes. I don’t know.” He approaches the window and Sebastian feels giddy to finally see him in real life.

“Is it safe to leave? For you? Or should I… come in?” Sebastian asks.

There’s a pause. “I’m not going anywhere,” the other boy says.

“I’m not leaving you alone with him,” Sebastian asserts at once. “Is he there now? Do you need me to-”

There’s an awkward intake of breath, then a sigh that crackles down the phone. Between the icicles Sebastian sees movement, as though the other boy has raised his arm to touch his face and perhaps remembered his cast.

There’s a pregnant beat.

The other boy clicks his tongue. “I’ll come downstairs.”

Sebastian surges towards the gate. He doesn’t know whether to open it, whether that was an invitation to come to the front door or not, but he can hear the skinny lad thundering down the stairs with more noise than Sebastian thought that scrawny frame could produce.

His abuser can’t be home if he’s making noise like that, right?

The front door swings open, and Sebastian reflexively pushes past the gate. The other boy gets to the front step and pauses.

He’s gorgeous, in a tuberculosis painting sort of way. Pale as bone, with a shock of dark hair and dark, bruised eyes like coal set in snow. One arm in a crooked-looking sling and the other holding up the phone.

“Basher,” the other boy says. He cancels the call sounding stunned. “You’re Basher Moran.”

Sebastian hadn’t sent pictures of his face either.

“Hi.”

The other boy shivers. “Whatever,” he says. “I’m too cold to stand here; come in if you’re coming.”

Sebastian strides forwards.

It doesn't feel any warmer inside to Sebastian. The door to what Sebastian expects to be a living area is completely closed. “Kitchen,” the other boy says brusquely over his shoulder, leading him to the next door. Sebastian’s unconvinced the layout of the house is original.

“Are we alone? Safe alone, I mean?” Sebastian asks.

“In a matter of speaking,” the other boy says. He looks odd – kind of shaken, but also resolutely peaceful. He darts an analytical look Sebastian’s way.

“Is he passed out?” Sebastian asks even though his gut is telling him no, no, of course the man isn’t…

The papercut-thin waif in the cast and sling squares his tiny, pointed shoulders. “No,” he says seriously.

Sebastian looks the other boy up and down. “Do you know how to get rid of a body?”

The other boy looks relieved and shifty all at once. “Kind of?”

“There’s no way you can lift someone who’s big enough to… you know,” Sebastian flutters his hand ineffectually at his own throat, gesturing to where the other boy had strangulation bruises before.

“I could steal a really sharp knife,” the other boy says. He gives the utensils scattered beside the sink a look that suggests he doesn’t have access to any that would be any use whatsoever. “Dispose bit by bit.”

Sebastian leans against the cupboards. “Or I could help.”

The other teen’s gaze flickers. “You don’t even know my name, do you?”

“Figured knowing whether you were safe was more important,” Sebastian says. “But sure, it would be nice to know your name if I’m about to risk prison for you.”

“Do you know any lawyers?” the other boy asks.

“We’re not going to need lawyers; we’re not going to get caught,” Sebastian states.

The other boy casts a glance at the wall that separates them from the living room, and, presumably, a dead body. He sighs. “Of course you’re confident: you’re rich, smart, and huge.”

Sebastian considers the slighter teen carefully. “You missed out ‘gorgeous’.”

The other boy blinks quickly. Sebastian can see the gears turning behind those dark eyes, and then the lad giggles jaggedly. “Did I really just accidentally murder my father then invite a gay rich boy who doesn’t even know my name into my kitchen to help me get rid of the body?”

“Accidentally?” Sebastian questions.

The other boy grimaces. “It’s been hard to work out doses when he puts so much other crap in his body. I was hoping he’d drop dead somewhere public when I was at school.”

Sebastian frowns. Local non-fee-paying schools have slightly different holidays. “Should you be at school now?”

“Free period,” the other boy says. “Christmas break doesn’t start for us until Tuesday.”

“You go to school so it doesn’t seem suspicious; I’ll see what I can do here,” Sebastian offers.

“I’m not leaving you with him whilst I go to school! How do I know if you’re any good at hiding a body?” the other boy squawks softly.

Sebastian gestures to his face. “I’m pretty lucky.”

The skinny teen looks at him for a beat. Then he pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m not. I’m so screwed.”

“You’re not,” Sebastian says firmly. He looks around. “Have you anything to eat?”

“I’m not allowed-” The other teen trails off. “Actually, yeah. Yeah, we can eat the whole damned loaf.”

“Not me, you,” Sebastian says. “If you don’t eat soon you’ll disappear when you turn around. Eat something, take a breather, then get ready for school. We can both have a think, then deal with things later. It’s probably better to move a body in the dark anyway.”

“To where?” the thin boy asks.

“Woods maybe? They’re quite far though. What about a cemetery? I can dig up frozen ground, but it’ll look obviously disturbed in this weather,” Sebastian muses.

The waif stares at him. “I’ve got a freezer, Moran.”

Sebastian feels a flutter at the sound of his name in what is an endearing, Irish lilt. “I’ve got your back, mysterious phone thief.”

The other boy laughs, surprised and seemingly more at ease. “If you’re still here when I get back from school and the police aren’t, then we can do introductions.”

“You just want to make a dramatic exit,” Sebastian teases.

“Hi, stanger-who-sends-me-photos-of-his-striped-arse, I’ve accidentally-on-purpose poisoned my father, would you like to tell me to eat breakfast before you pack me off to class?” the scrawny teen mocks right back.

Sebastian laughs. “You want to take the photos yourself in future? Don’t even need to hit me first.”

The other boy looks flustered but quickly forces his expression into something neutral. “You’re really hitting on the stranger who murdered his father?”

“Can’t think of anything sexier,” Sebastian says flippantly. “I’m a bit jealous.”

“Please let’s not practice any more murder until we successfully get away with my first one,” the skinny teen says.

“Yeah, yeah, you rub my inexperience in my face now. Just you wait until you see my muscles bulging as I drag your dad out to the woods and bury him under a dead badger.”

“We are not going to be able to smuggle him to the nearest woods because do you know how fucking far they are from here? And it’s icy.”

“Okay, quick correction: my muscles bulging as I shove your da in the freezer,” Sebastian amends.

“Yes, we’re stuffing him in the freezer. And that means we need to defrost what’s in there, not that there’s much. How about you make yourself busy whilst I go find my fucking maths textbook,” the other boy retorts dryly.

“Oh, won’t give me your name, but willing to give the orders, are you?” Sebastian asks.

“Get used to it,” the other boy says.

Sebastian goes to the freezer and has to dislodge ice crystals to pull out the drawers. “Poison’s not violent enough for my dad. What about a shooting accident? It would be easier to stuff him in the freezer… Although I suppose I won’t need a freezer if someone from his hunting party shoots him.”

The other boy points a bony finger at him. “No murdering anyone else until we’ve dealt with this one.”

“Yes, boss,” Sebastian says.

The skinny teen’s expression flickers. “It’s Jim,” he mutters, then sidles out the door.

“You’re not waiting for the lack of police sirens?” Sebastian calls up the stairs after him, thrilled and trying not to sound overly so.

Jim shrugs at the top of the stairs. “I’ve already killed one person today. What’s one more if you fuck up?”

“You are terrible at flirting,” Sebastian says, although his gut doesn’t seem to think so.

“You’ll know when I’m flirting,” Jim says, then turns towards his bedroom door.

“ _’When’_?” Sebastian repeats hopefully.

“ _Down_ , tiger!” Jim says cheerfully.

**Author's Note:**

> Do any of you remember the feel-good story about Brother Orange? This is super loosely based off of that.


End file.
